


FADED IN TWILIGHT

by SILKCUT



Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [21]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Inscribed by SILKCUT, Twitter Solo Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SILKCUT/pseuds/SILKCUT
Summary: Is it possible to taste sound, to take it with your own two hands and squeeze until it transforms into flesh and bone, a writhing, screaming mess, who's swearing and hurling lyrics towards a strung-out, drugged-up crowd of teens and twenty-somethings? Because Simon felt like that; a resolute sound that took the form of a young man with blue-dyed hair and frosted tips, wet mouth pressed too intimately on the microphone, so ravenous to engulf this entire club in tidal waves of music that was not of this world but on a different plane of reality altogether.Fuck, was he so drunk and full of himself! Simon laughed at the hilarity of his feelings, blaming the fantasy of invincibility on the puberty and hormones.
Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132040





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｓｉｍｏｎ Ｔａｌｉｅｓｉｎ Ｄｏｖｅ

**ﾒ**

* * *

## Ｃｈｅｒｒｙ Ｂｏｍｂ

##  **༻✧**

**1994**

It took Simon a few tries to climb the summit that was the main stage inside the overcrowded club of 89 Miserab Blvd, possibly because he had drunk not only five beers that night, but also some shots of bourbon, of which he lost count of.   
  
The combination was made worse by the fact that he drank on an empty stomach, and his teenage mistake gurgled unpleasantly inside him, like a raging fuck-you to the intestines.   
  
Other than that, he was happy. The elation wasn't solely because of the alcohol buzz but also due to the humbling fact that he's surrounded by his favorite sounds in the world. He has unnatural hearing for as long as he could remember, and he swore that the people's hearts below him matched the tempo of every song that was played tonight.   
  
This was home, and it swathed him in warmth like his own personal cocoon. He basked on it, with all the booze, adrenaline and punk rock imbibed in his pores, making his blood run hot that he's perspiring it all.  
  
Simon eventually settled on the stage, barely coherent and functional, all while his eyes were closed and he's grinning like an asshole. Someone even had to help him strap on his neon green electric guitar. In a mindless gesture of gratitude, he planted a kiss on their lips. He's so fucking happy to be back in his element that he started playing a surge of power chords unrelated to the song he's supposed to be doing. His friends on stage with him with their own instruments (and drunkenness to contend with) didn't care.  
  
He did start singing two minutes into a frenzied guitar solo no one asked for. The song he picked was 'Cherry Bomb' by the all-girl band The Runaways. Because why the fuck not.  
  
Bright lights from bulbs too hot to touch which hung from the ceiling highlighted every flaw in his complexion, and the way his skin glistened with sweat, as he enunciated with a husky, albeit nasal, delivery:  
  
'hєllσ, dαddч. hєllσ, mσm.   
í'm чσur ch-ch-ch-chєrrч вσmв! hєllσ wσrld!   
í'm чσur wíld gírl.   
í'm чσur ch-ch-ch-chєrrч вσmв!'  
  
He also tried to feminize his voice for effect on certain lines. Bouncing on his feet with the unexpected grace of a ballet dancer, Simon commanded his body like it was just another extension of the guitar he's grasping, whose strings he's fiddling in a mad pace like he had never fingered a girl or guy before. He's both hyper-aware and ignorant of the cacophony closing in on him, as each note he struck was amplified by the noises happening around the mosh pit.   
  
All of these sounds clashed, a meeting of titans that could rip apart the fabric in reality, or at least that's how it felt for Simon. He always felt like that when he performed.  
  
'hєч, strєєt вσч, wαnt sσmє stчlє?   
чσur dєαd єnd drєαms dσn't mαkє чσu smílє.   
í'll gívє чσu sσmєthíng tσ lívє fσr.   
hαvє чσu αnd grαв чσu untíl чσu'rє sσrє.'  
  
Is it possible to taste sound, to take it with your own two hands and squeeze until it transforms into flesh and bone, a writhing, screaming mess, who's swearing and hurling lyrics towards a strung-out, drugged-up crowd of teens and twenty-somethings? Because Simon felt like that; a resolute sound that took the form of a young man with blue-dyed hair and frosted tips, wet mouth pressed too intimately on the microphone, so ravenous to engulf this entire club in tidal waves of music that was not of this world but on a different plane of reality altogether.  
  
Fuck, was he so drunk and full of himself! Simon laughed at the hilarity of his feelings, blaming the fantasy of invincibility on the puberty and hormones.  
  
'í'm чσur ch-ch-ch-chєrrч вσmв!'  
  
His paradise was cut short soon enough when he picked up a conflicting exchange from an otherwise cooperative symphony. Simon found it easily, given the precision of that hearing of his. The glare of the lights on stage made it hard to see anything clearly, so he had to rely on that hypersensitive sense in question. He never stopped strumming his guitar until he became certain of the incident unfolding among the great masses below him.  
  
A man with a Mohawk had just punched a girl. Simon instantly recognized the hollow sound of his knuckles connecting with her jaw. It was followed by a few more words that are definitely a form of verbal abuse, as he forcibly tried to remove her. She scratched him. Simon heard her nails digging onto the fabric of his shirt. Her heartbeat was erratic, like an animal facing death but still hoping it could escape.  
  
"Hey, fucker!" With an abrupt swipe of hand, Simon stopped playing and held the guitar's handle away so he could shout some more into the mic, "Yeah, you Mohawk cunt, I'm talking to you! How were you raised, huh? Are you a goddamn savage, hitting a girl like that?"  
  
His friends slowed down on their own beats to blink wearily across the commotion Simon was addressing.  
  
"You think I'm afraid of you? I ain't scared of no pussy who would punch a girl!"  
  
The crowd was growing restless and confused. On one hand, they want the band to keep playing. On the other, they're just as curious and pissed at whoever was being accused of assault within their ranks. Some who were standing beside the arguing couple did witness the confrontation too and were jeering alongside Simon, shoving the Mohawk guy away while a few were kind enough to shield the girl for protection and out of solidarity.  
  
Bouncers were finally called to settle the fight, but Simon didn't let it end there. He took off the strap of his guitar and cast the instrument aside in reckless anger.   
  
"You wanna fight someone, bitch? I'll fight you! I don't care if you're seven feet tall because of your ugly-ass hair!" He approached the mosh pit, glaring down at the other guy who was also swearing at him. Simon tuned it out, which was helped by the fact that his heart was rattling against his rib cage, a booming thunder that could not be silenced.  
  
Five foot-seven and sixteen years old, Simon didn't look intimidating except of course when he's all fury and threats. He's gotten into heated arguments before, mostly about stupid things concerning his band and his failing grades at school, but nothing of this scale before. He was enraged by the audacity of this dude to come here and ruin Simon's best live performance yet; and to ruin it by being an abusive pig at that? Fuck no!  
  
An innocent girl got injured, which was all that mattered to him right now. With his hyper senses, he could still hear her muffled weeping, the haunting melody of it lost there among the sea of spectators. Simon had no idea a heart breaking into pieces could sound this devastating. It made his blood boil tenfold.  
  
He took a few steps back, making the audience think he didn't mean his threats.   
  
They were wrong.  
  
In one startling moment, he jumped, as high as he usually did whenever he rocked out, with one leg spread out. It was rather fortunate that he got the angle right, because his shin made contact with the Mohawk guy's head as soon as he fell into the swarm. To describe what happened in the next instant as utter chaos will be downplaying it. So many arms started grabbing at him, either to aid him to drag him down. Simon had to ignore everything going on so he could listen solely to his own strength of conviction as he laid it all out on his target.   
  
He swung and punched, not caring whether he missed or not. All the alcohol in his system kept him viciously upright when earlier it made him dizzy and giddy. But pretty soon the intensity became too much. His ears were ringing, growing hot and numb all at once. The cacophony of the club which he had considered a lullaby before now turned against him. Soon enough his vision dimmed and his movements got sloppy. Midway through either puking or passing out, he saw Mohawk guy (his nose now bloodied and broken) grab a fistful of his shirt as he pulled his other arm back, no doubt to pound him with it next.  
  
Simon snapped, like a string on a guitar bound too tightly around the tuning post, and where one too many plucks would cause it to unravel.   
  
Something happened to his body he could not explain then, and it still lingered many years from now whenever he would have bad dreams about that night in 86 Miserab Blvd.  
  
He cannot pinpoint precisely how it started, but Simon remembered how his veins just burst, like something of a large entity was crowning out him. And there were...stars? No, more like lightning bolts shooting out of his pores. Now that can't be right. He must have dreamed that part.   
  
But Simon had a dozen tiny scar tissues across his arms and legs since that night, all the evidence he needed to understand it had happened. Not failing to mention how everyone within the vicinity suffered tremendous hearing loss for the next fifteen minutes. That aftermath was even more awful, and Simon was right at the heart of it.  
  
Bruised and stunned, he could only watch in helpless agony as everyone screamed together in unison, mouths agape, with the fear carved into their faces, making their own veins pop...  
  
...but there was only the punishing silence.  
  
Simon wouldn't know until a few weeks later that it was all because of him. With his righteous anger the trigger, he detonated on the one place he called home, and he's never truly forgiven himself for that.  
  
It would take another month before he could accept that he had a mutation. He wasn't imagining the things he felt onstage after all. Something in his biology can sense sound very differently than the average human. The worst part of it all was that he had weaponized it to hurt others. 

## ➷

A decade had passed before he even stepped foot inside Miserab again. He's long abandoned dreams of stardom as a rock star at this point, though he never stopped making music even only as a hobby he and a few other close friends can appreciate. For how could Simon propel himself to pursue those heights, knowing he won't be able to disguise his abilities for long once the spotlight is on him, and sooner or later the wrong crowd could fall victim to what he can do. He didn't loathe having his powers per se, just the deal breakers and inconveniences that came with them.  
  
Hell, he couldn't even tell Amy, his soon-to-be bride, though she suspected he was changed forever after that incident and not just because of the usual trauma.  
  
Simon now stood on the same spot where it happened. Miserab was empty during noon, with only the staff and crew around as they prepare for the line-up of performances every night. He eyed the ground warily for a minute or two before he looked up at the stage. The has-been rocker tried to imagine his teenage self propped up there, a smug little shit who cared so much about things that shouldn't matter and didn't care enough for those that did.  
  
And he smiled. For all the misgivings and bad memories, Simon still loved this punk rock scene. And 86 Miserab Blvd was an enduring snapshot of a fierce boyhood he was proud to have lived and now tell tales of to aspiring kids who listened to his band's EPs and bootleg copies of live concerts at some point, and decided they want to be a part of that too.  
  
Who could blame them? There's an electricity to this kind of music you will never find in any another genre; it's raw and hungry and terrible at making apologies and growing up.  
  
But Simon had, ultimately, and it was only then that he can finally let go.

* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@SONOFRAGENDLUV](https://twitter.com/sonofragendluv) **

**ﾒ**

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｓｉｍｏｎ Ｔａｌｉｅｓｉｎ Ｄｏｖｅ

**ﾒ**

* * *

##  **We live in**

## Ｔｒｏｕｂｌｅｄ

## Ｔｉｍｅｓ

##  **༻✧**

Simon was punishingly sober today, of all the days, as he swerved his car towards the spacious pathway surrounded by lawns found only in country clubs or, in this case, a ten-acre estate for the very entitled and elite.   
  
The greenery stretched seemingly for miles before he at last parked close to what can easily be assumed was the grand entrance. Imposing doors made of fine wood came to view as soon as he swung his car door open and exhaled like he'd rather hurl bile on the ground. Those same doors had never been tarnished or weathered by time, much like the arrogance of the family who lived here. It wafted in his direction immediately as he dared step foot inside these premises.   
  
He didn't go in just yet and instead stared at the expanse of the mansion's facade through his dark shades before giving it a well-deserved grimace. This could have been comical, coming back here after so many years, if it wasn't so much of a tragedy at his expense too.  
  
"Jesus, this fucking place..." Simon muttered while patting his jacket's front pocket so he can take out a single stick of cigarette. He didn't light it just yet and merely pushed it through his hair to rest on the curve of his ear.  
  
Afterwards, he climbed an arching staircase forged in some type of fancy marble, carved by a well-known mason from Sicily or whatever. He knew someone told him about it once, but he never retained the information. The craftsmanship was beautiful though, something Simon can appreciate even though he hated everything this kind of wealth is usually associated with.  
  
He was in the middle of wondering whether he should knock or click a button (he was sure there was a button the last time he and his mother were asked to come here), but then the butler appeared, pushing the doors wide open just as Simon almost placed his hand on the knobs.  
  
"Good afternoon, Signor Dove," he spoke in that familiar clipped accent his boyhood self can recall even after almost three decades.  
  
In spite of himself, Simon was suddenly nervous but he managed a cheeky smile and responded with, "What's up, Giovanno. Do you remember me then?"  
  
Such a stupid question only earned him an amused silence on the senior man's end. With a gracious bow of his head, the butler Giovanno answered instead, "Refreshments are already available in the parlor, signor, in case you are parched or have not yet eaten. Come this way. Everyone's been waiting."  
  
"Yeah, sure," Simon removed his shades and started taking out his prescription glasses from another pocket, all while strolling down the halls with Giovanno. He didn't even notice the cigarette slipping from his ear until they've arrived to the parlor, and the butler has picked it up along the way and handed it back to Simon at the last moment.  
  
He counted at least twelve people who were gathered in the parlor. Three women were sitting down while the rest formed small groups among themselves. They stopped to raise their eyes towards the direction of the new guest, the one who never fitted into the paradigm of this social hierarchy to begin with, let alone have a permanent place in it.  
  
Simon was not going to be intimidated, however. He sauntered forward, with one hand adjusting his glasses while the other pushed the cigarette back on the same spot it was perched in previously.  
  
One of the women on the couches was his half-sister Cheryl. She was holding onto her belly which had become more rotund since he last saw her. Gently, he leaned towards her, with a hand resting on the ledge of the couch.  
  
"What's going on? Why was I invited to this..." he glanced around the parlor and saw that almost everyone was now staring at him, like they were personally offended for Cheryl's behalf that she's forced to talk to him. Assholes.  
  
"...what the fuck is this anyway?"  
  
Cheryl calmly leveled her gaze with his, blue eyes less icy than he remembered. She genuinely looked concerned about something. Her own hand circled around his on the ledge without warning. Simon almost flinched away, not only because of the fact that they're not even close, let alone ever treated each other as family, but also since her skin was rather clammy.   
  
"Hey, what's wrong?" Still, the instinct to be a real brother came out anyway, and he squeezed her hand back, reluctantly at first, adding, "Can I help you with something? Is that why I'm here?"  
  
"No, listen, okay?" she rose to her feet now and let his hand go before she urged him to follow her next, right towards the open bar where she feigned at serving him a drink whilst they talked in hushed tones.  
  
"Nonno has passed last month," she explained. And then she took a bottle of bourbon and poured it into a shot glass for Simon. It was a pretty strong choice of booze at this hour, but they both knew somehow that he would not put up with any more of the crushing hypocrisy of this situation if he wasn't at least drinking.  
  
So he took the shot glass and finished it in one gulp, ignoring potential judgment from the cynical pieces of shit who are were around them. He placed it back on the table, "Yeah? I mean, sorry for your loss. My condolences and...all that."  
  
Cheryl glared, "Look, he was your own blood too, you know. You can at least try better with the grief."  
  
"Hm," Simon gestured for her to pour him another shot, "Blood means nothing without love. And who would love a bastard borne by a middle-class, high school dropout like my mother, huh? You've always considered her the strumpet who seduced a Napolitano heir, one obviously way out of her league. So why should I give a fuck about any of this?"  
  
"Don't start," Cheryl stopped pouring midway and pushed the shot glass away from his reach instead. "And keep your voice down. They already don't approve of you being here."  
  
He was almost tempted to turn around and flip everyone off, but he somehow found the grace and restraint to keep it to himself. Perhaps there was also that mild though lingering curiosity, as to why he was asked to come here, especially when nobody aside from Cheryl seemed to be okay about it.  
  
As if reading his mind, said woman cited, "By now, you probably want to know why you've been invited to this somber event, right? Well, Simon, you had been named in Nonno's will."  
  
It took him a few moments to process that, and even then he didn't care. To express that disinterest, Simon took the bottle of bourbon from Cheryl and drank straight from it.  
  
"Did you hear what I just said?"  
  
Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, he answered, "So? Tell them they can have my share then. That's it, right? We're done now? Listen, I don't want anything from you or your people who had time and time again never showed any hint of sympathy or regret for the shit they've put my mom through."  
  
Simon was already on his way out, not even bothering to put the bottle down. He would at least take it with him.  
  
But Cheryl had grabbed him by the elbow just in time, and the only reason he didn't push her away was because she's pregnant and still his goddamn sister, even if they never grew up together or even lived in the same house. Simon was learning to care for her though, in spite of telling himself not to, and it was all because of that one road trip they took there several years back during college...  
  
Against his best judgment, he stayed, with one hand clenched on his side and the other gripping the bottle as if he was ready to smash it against a wall. These turbulent waves of emotions were not entirely unlike him, given his quick temper, but Simon also considered himself a pretty level-headed guy, one who's driven by a strong sense of right and wrong. He always aimed for fairness even when tested and drained by the people who least likely deserve his graciousness.  
  
Cheryl kept holding onto his elbow and beseeching him with her eyes. at the moment, which made it even harder to leave. She leaned close and uttered something equally intriguing too: "Trust me, if it was just a matter of money, I never would have invited you here. The kind of valuable restitution you need is never going to be monetary, Sy. I know that. But there's something else in that will you might want to hear. Please stay. And listen."  
  
That pang of curiosity was back again, itching on the surface of his mind. He loosened his hold on the bottle and stared at it, as if contemplating another sip. Cheryl decided otherwise for him when she snatched it away before enfolding her hand on his again. After she placed the bottle back on the bar, she led Simon towards the other guests, the aunts and uncles and other relatives he never knew by name, just by face and through reputation.  
  
"I'm not going to bother with introductions because you already know who he is, and he's here because I wanted him here," his half-sister tucked a few loose strands of dark hair that have fallen from her conservative bun. She then straightened her back, clutching both her belly and Simon's hand for fortitude, adding, "And so did Nonno. So whatever opinion you may have about anything, please keep it to yourselves. Respect Nonno's wishes, including what he's laid out on his will and testament."  
  
Shockingly, no one spoke up. A few glared daggers at Simon, while the rest dismissed him with a tight smile. That was charming enough, so he returned their hospitality by making himself comfortable on the couch next to Cheryl. He hoarded the space a little too keenly, which forced the two other women to move away or just pick another furniture to sit on.   
  
"Are you sure about this?" It was Cheryl's husband (a Chad or a Lucas, Simon can't recall) who squeezed her gently on the shoulder to inquire, "This is almost an act of war with these folks. And would you really risk alienating them from now on, because of...a brother you hardly owe a damn thing to?"  
  
Douchebag knew Simon could overhear, and he almost retorted with something as equally mean, but Cheryl responded with, "This is my family first, so I get to make my own decisions when it comes to that. Right now, more than anything, what Nonno wanted was to include Simon for the reading of his will. So sit down and just support me on this."  
  
She kept her hand closed around Simon's for a few more moments, which no doubt irked Chad/Lucas as he sank to a nearby sofa on his wife's right side.  
  
The next thirty minutes or so was a blur, at least as far as Simon is concerned. It was the usual garbage he expected to hear; properties had been curated down to the very last detail, as well as to whom they were being endowed among the kin who attended this meeting; then this was followed by inane discussions concerning other properties that were not explicitly disclosed; all while they sneered at Simon every now and then for the audacity of his presence.   
  
None of them, except for Cheryl, wished for an outsider to witness their personal politics and greed on full display. This collective disdain aimed at him was so entertaining and made the entire thing bearable, even if it's still as soul-crushingly stupid as ever. Simon made sure he even had a shit-eating grin each time he caught the eye of some fuming relative.   
  
Finally, one of the three lawyers scanned the rest of the documents again before he met Cheryl's eyes discreetly. She nodded, all while she cultivated a more serious expression. Simon, meanwhile, was quick to pick up on the tension and gravity of this new situation, as the air around them seemed to change, like a harbinger of potentially bad news.  
  
Nonno's parting words engulfed the parlor with the heavy weight they bore. In them he revealed that the Napolitanos, going as far back as seven generations, have a genetic defect, the one now deemed as the mutant gene. It skipped every few generations, which meant that the old man possessed it yet his heirs did not; including Simon's father and two other siblings. However, it's still possible that there may be a few kin in the ongoing lineage who could acquire a mutation, and Nonno emphasized that he had options for those family relatives, just in case.  
  
"What sort of options are we talking about here?" One of the distant uncles raised that one question in everyone's minds.  
  
The lawyer cleared his throat before reciting, "There are two options in particular; one is a chance to become eligible for beta-testing which had made breakthroughs so far in curing the mutant gene. It was a project your grandfather funded a decade ago alongside other interested parties in other foreign countries. This would allow the kin in question a chance for a normal life, by neutering the infection before it progresses into a more fixed state."  
  
A chill swept across Simon now, almost making him break into a cold sweat. He couldn't describe how he felt except that it was beginning to take over him like the most unpleasant mixture of nausea, anger and disbelief.   
  
He couldn't stay quiet anymore. "And what's option number two?"  
  
Everyone turned to look at him, as if they've forgotten in that small window of dread and confusion that this outsider was still very much a part of this debacle.  
  
"Well, if the infected kin insists on living with the mutation then..." the lawyer scanned the piece of paper again, trying as hard as he could to stay neutral whilst he delivered the contents, "...Napolitano offered a private island of undisclosed location where he or she could live off the rest of their unnatural life, confined to this place without becoming a burden or inconvenience to the family and the world at large."  
  
Cheryl gripped Simon's hand tighter. Of course, she would, because she knew about Simon and his powers. She knew since college and agreed to keep it a secret. And now she brought him here, her estranged half-brother, to see and hear the truth for himself regarding how much danger he could be in; that the biggest threat to his survival are not strangers but those of his own blood.  
  
"That sounds about right," another relative quipped, "It would be this family's greatest shame if people find out that we have a mutie in our midst."  
  
Simon's head was about to burst. His neck was flushed, chest constricting like he was about to have a panic attack right there and then. But he kept his features schooled, knowing that as much as these bigots deserved his wrath, he still wouldn't risk exposure. He had Chet to think about, even Amy. Their divorce papers may had just been finalized months ago, but they're also still in the middle of a rather complicated custody battle.  
  
He had to so much to lose, more so than his temper in this very moment.  
  
"It's rather cruel of Nonno to only inform us about this on his death. Can you imagine? Any child we may have or have already...could be genetically predisposed to...that hideous freakishness we read on the news lately?"  
  
"I'm telling you, Jane, if Richard has this gene then we are going to ensure he takes every test and cure before we enroll him into prep school next semester."  
  
"Yes, I heard that this mutie thing can manifest during adolescence! And even earlier, if they are triggered by stressors."   
  
"These are troubled times we are living, Sheldon. I cannot bear seeing our daughter having this thing to haunt her for the rest of her life. She's only four! Promise me we will take Option One if it ever comes down to that."  
  
Simon slowly rose to his feet, careful not to call attention to himself while everyone was absorbed in their own personal drama. He slowly disentangled his hand from Cheryl's, muttering, "I need to go. I can't be here anymore."  
  
But his half-sister was in the middle of her own spat with Chad/Lucas. She did, however, glanced towards Simon's direction as he made his way out of the parlor. It took all of his strength to keep himself upright and walking. He wasn't sure if he was more fearful or more furious, and that limbo of polar emotions is ripping through his very core right now, like badly played, out-of-tune chords.  
  
He half-ran through the halls and managed to reach the doors--these bulky, finely-crafted inhibitors of escape. They wouldn't budge, no matter how hard he pushed or turn the knobs. He would have shouted for Giovanno when he saw Cheryl rushing towards him first.  
  
"No," Simon turned away and stared at the wood still blocking his exit with a stubborn yet mournful look. Times like this he wished he has laser eyes, like the X-Men's Cyclops. Why couldn't that have been his mutation?  
  
"Sy, I'm really--"  
  
He cut her off by facing her abruptly, "You could have warned me, you know. I'd have appreciated some sort of a coordinated preparation between us instead of just being tossed into that cesspool of fuck-all that is your money-grubbing, close-minded bigoted family!"  
  
"You!" Cheryl grabbed a portion of his shirt, crumpling it with her first as she stared back wildly at him, "You are my family too. And I'm really sorry the rest of us had been such a shitty disappointment, Simon, but I don't have...I don't have anyone else I can trust. Not even Sean."  
  
With furrowed eyebrows, he almost asked 'who's Sean' when he realized that /that/ was the her hubby's name after all.  
  
"Trust? What are you talking about?"  
  
"You heard what Nonno said," she sniffed once as tears began to gather in the corner of her eyes, "This gene skips generations in our family and...you had it. And maybe..." she looked down at the belly she's cradling, protecting at all costs.  
  
"Yeah," Simon was growing impatient, and his desire to take it out on Cheryl outweighed every bit of restraint he still had, so he took a deep breath before he could say anything next which he will truly regret.  
  
"Tell me," he inched closer, holding her gaze, "...if you had a child with a mutation, are you going to have it neutered or just exiled? Because those are the only options you have as a Napolitano."  
  
Cheryl raised her hand and Simon flinched immediately, but the slap never made contact because she had more restraint than him.  
  
"Neither," she said through gritted teeth and tearful eyes, "You know fucking well I will love my baby no matter what, and that if he or she will be someone like you, then I would have loved them even more."  
  
Simon frowned at that, even though he appreciated the sentiment and conviction in her words. He didn't like what else she meant by it though, especially when the hand she would have slapped him with instead cupped his cheek.  
  
"You're a hero to me, Sy," she admitted but it was also through a whisper, a secret that was too precious for anyone else to learn. "And I just wish you would stop hiding what you can do especially since I know you want to do so much more with what you were given. So why don't you, big brother?"  
  
"Don't do that," Simon encircled a hand around her wrist and lowered that from his face, "Don't say it as if you've ever seen me as anything but a bastard."  
  
"But it's true. You are special, Sy. Daddy was right," Cheryl was staring up at him with so much love and hope that he stepped away, scared shitless, with his back almost resting against the doors. For some reason, Giovanno was suddenly there, and he's already opening them to allow Simon a chance out of there, at long last.  
  
And he took it and never looked back.  
  
While driving halfway through the road that led away from the mansion, he slowed down and lit the cigarette from earlier using the small socket on his car. He breathed it in with a long puff that almost singed his throat. But, as soon as he exhaled, all the tension that has curled in his gut faded away like a tendril of smoke.  
  
She was wrong about him. They all were. And Simon will never step foot into that horrid place again.   
  
There was so much to lose now and plenty more reasons to hide.   


* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@SONOFRAGENDLUV](https://twitter.com/sonofragendluv) **

**ﾒ**

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｓｉｍｏｎ Ｔａｌｉｅｓｉｎ Ｄｏｖｅ

**ﾒ**

* * *

## Ｔｈｅ

## Ｄａｎｇｅｒｏｕｓ

## Ｋｉｎｄ

##  **༻✧**

  
Mojoworld was unbearable, a shit stain in the terrible beauty of so many universes largely unknown--and it's been Simon's second home in the last twenty years. Or just somewhere close to eight months, if he's comparing it with Earth time, the planet where he originated from.

Either way, he hates it here. If someone comes up to him one day back in Earth, who knows he's a mutant, and would ask him about his affiliation, Simon wouldn't have it in him to lie. 

He's wanted, for the longest time, to say he belonged with the X-Men. Or the X-Force. Hell, he will take up the mantle of a Magneto acolyte at this point--anything but to be associated with the denizens of Mojoworld.

"It's like Hunger Games, only more oppressive and depressingly dumber," is the exact wording he would use if someone asked him to explain what Mojoworld even was.

That's not to say that Simon belittles or diminishes the only too-real struggles and sufferings of those who never wanted to be here, including the countless actors and musicians (not just from Earth) who had been abducted so they can entertain the Spineless ones ruled by this fucktard Mojo.

That's what they are as a collective species; a bunch of media-consuming, fart-brained, obese aliens who are only kept upright by this device a scientist came up with at some point. They all wake up and go to bed in a cycle of entertainment consumption, and Mojo kept them culled by producing atrocious movies with actors placed in very dangerous situations.

It's an even worse deal with the musicians. Or maybe Simon was just biased because that's his trade being fucked around with, and the reason why they took him during one Tuesday afternoon while he was shopping for shoes. 

Zapped him using some sort of temporal distortion or whatever. 

Simon had been imprisoned for what felt like ages and forced to perform in sleazy night clubs, stadiums with the most violent mosh pits imaginable, and the occasional kids' parties--all of which had been under the penalty of death if he ever dared refused. 

Surprisingly, singing for his life had become a rather exhilarating experience, but that's besides the point. 

He's got a very demanding ex-wife and a son back in Earth who can't ever know what happened. And he needed to come home to them.

It wasn't until he met a rebel faction comprised of other musicians that he found a way to escape. 

Sort of. Not really.

It was more like he had been bullied into signing a record label ran by these so-called rebels who by now have become accustomed to a certain lifestyle--and bargained their talents in exchange for favors that Mojo personally granted.

And what did Simon get for his deal? Lousy shit he never asked for like his very own entourage and recording sessions at Mojofornia (yes, yes, they named it that) to help score a few movies. But he gets to at least go home. 

A week on Earth is already six months in Mojoworld. It meant that, to his loved ones, Simon simply spent the weekend partying until he got sick which explained why he would have the worst hungover come Monday. 

And not because he was touring for half a year around an ugly, ferocious, parasitic planet to play music. Apparently, he grew a steady fanbase during his first stint there, and Simon could admit that he actually liked the unique albeit insane environment of Mojoworld. Not aloud, mind you. 

It was maybe a Thursday back in Earth, and Simon was just getting ready to leave this shit-stain planet. He had just come back from a particularly rowdy concert too where someone dumped a bucket of artificial blood while he was being passed around a mosh pit at some point. 

They shoved him now into the hub where captives are usually transported from point A to point B, and didn't even allow him to change into something resembling human dignity.

Drying his hair with a towel, he steps into a platform, dragging his converse rather petulantly. 

"Same time, one month from now?" He calls out with a sardonic smile to one of the slimy bastards operating his hub.

The dipshit just grunts, barely taking its eyes off the screen where a celebrity death match was being broadcasted. That's all they do here in Mojoworld; watch the shows, attend the concerts, eat until they shit and then they hibernate. 

"Can we hurry this up because..." He gestures once at the red stains on his shirt and pants and the smudges on his skin. He can't wait to take a shower back home.

The spineless creature just pushes a button and a wormhole opens up.

"Fucking finally, man..." Simon adjusts the strap of his bags as he keeps the towel wrapped around his neck, then steps into the portal.

It takes a while to register that he isn't even walking in the right city, and that's because from the minute he was transported to Earth, Simon was already on his phone so he could text his ten-year old son. They're supposed to go to the park today.

Going from one planet to the next has become so routine by now (like taking the bus) that Simon still keeps looking at his phone and scrolls through the timeline of his social media next to see what he missed.

It was only when he realized that he had to cross a street that he looked up. Thirty seconds must have only passed since he stepped out of the portal and into wherever this is.

Simon blinks in annoyance and confusion. Something was off about this, and it has less to do with what he can see but more of what he could hear with his mutated sonar abilities--or not, in this case.

"Is this supposed to be--" he cuts himself short as he decides to move forward across the very much deserted streets of New York City. Well, that's alarming, especially (he glances at his watch) at this time of day. Wait...his watch has stopped working just now, and this is a special clock designed to keep him on track of the gaps between Earth time and Mojoworld.

"What kind of dimension is this now?" He hasn't started panicking yet. Maybe he should. But after all the bullshit he's been through in the previous planet, this doesn't seem that bad. Maybe he quantum-leaped into the future? Alternate universe? That's a thing, right? Goddamn space travel.

Those fat fucks in Mojoworld screwed up somehow. This isn't his home. Or even his version of reality. He can't explain it, but there's something about the atmosphere--the weight of the air, the littlest composition of matter--that makes him question it even exists.

"Fuck it," Simon unzips his duffle bag and rummages through his stuff until he found the device. It was something that helps him keep in touch with his fellow musicians still doing their gigs at Mojoworld.

Maybe he should take shelter somewhere first. He can't be standing around, out in the open like this. If there's one thing he's learned from being imprisoned in a hostile, foreign environment, is that he has to stay low and not announce his presence.

As he dashes to the closest unoccupied store he has spotted just now, Simon could only hope it wasn't too late. He did just spend several seconds browsing through Instagram earlier like a stupid asshole. Who knows if someone--or something--had seen him then?

He's now inside what looks like a hardware store. Things from the shelves have spilled out, most of which were smashed in or scattered on the broken tiled floor. Whatever shat here must have gone through that gaping hole on the left side of the building. Okay, ominous. Great.

Simon walks over to a wall where an ax was hanging so he could grab that. And then he looks for another room where he can barricade himself in while he tries to contact his friends.

## ➷

Instead of connecting instantly with Mojoworld, the washed-up punk rebel gets something even more mind-boggling.

"What?" Simon blinks at the message that appeared on his device's main hologram frame. He scrolls through the entire passage once, twice, several times, before he ends up exclaiming, "What the fuck is this shit now?" with all the exasperated indignation of the homesick, overworked, divorced father in his forties could muster.

He has no idea how to even begin unpacking the content of this enigmatic passage other than the fact that it had shitty timing. There's heat on the skin around his collar, so he knows he's fuming, but before the panic and anger could hijack him, he immediately summons prudence and simply breathes audibly through his nose whilst he collects his thoughts.

Simon tries to think, to force himself to actively rationalize what is happening and what to do next. He's itching to get out of his stained clothes. He's parched, a little hungover, and definitely impatient--but he will shove all those negative emotions now, if it meant keeping his wits about him. It's become clear that this new dimension, slice of reality, whatever, is not safe. 

He could die--and other people somewhere could be in danger too. And this "Dr. Strange" may be the only key, his only lifeline, to get out of here unscathed. And that entails following their instructions.

As soon as his mind received the clarity it needed, he reads the it again with a more stoic calmness. 

'Alright,' he said to himself, 'What sort of shit do I have to get done, doc?'

Rampaging goddesses, a nuclear reactor. So far, so good. Did this Dr. Strange know about Simon's abilities then? It would seem so, given that they phrased the last bit of the message with, 'It will be a bigger strain than your body has ever experienced, but maybe the physics in this dimension will help you.'

Then they end it with a cheery, 'Maybe not'. Fantastic.

He pockets the device and looks around the room he's decided to lock himself in. It's a storage of some sort with things he couldn't fully examine just yet but he might require some of them in the near future. Hopefully never, and that is if he could get out of here soon. Can this Dr. Strange guarantee that? Could he communicate with them, like, text back?

Simon takes out the device again. This was only supposed to connect to Mojoworld. Sighing, he pockets it yet again and places down his two bags. The one other thing he does take from one of them is a small, orange vintage stereo. It was deceptive in its appearance, like most of Mojoworld technology that is very fond of copying human gadget aesthetics. 

This blows! He's packed to go back home not get recruited to participate in another Earth's bizarre geopolitics and power play. But sometimes all the choices you are offered are bad ones.

And he's gotten a good grip making them lately.

Clutching the ax in one hand and that stereo in another, Simon walks out of the store with the gait of someone who knows what he's doing. Confidence is part of the costume, and although what he's wearing wasn't exactly ideal for a suicide mission--black everything save the shirt that has 'fuck the police' in pink neon letters, and a rainbow brooch on his leather jacket--but at least he will die with style.

'Try not to die'. Yeah, right.

Simon stands there in the middle of the vacant street, a reluctant, irritated, one-man army, squinting at the horizon. He wasn't even given any directions specifically to locate the nuclear reactor. Some fucking doctor.

But he doesn't need them. He could already sense the energy even from this far distance. The reverberation is akin to doing tequila and whiskey shots, ten of each, without ever pausing for a chaser. Yeah, that's nuclear power, alright, and it beckons him to tip down that glass of radioactive poison.

Simon turns a few of the knobs in the stereo and goes, "This sucks."

A low-level sonar frequency engulfs the immediate ten-mile radius; he doesn't want to attract too much attention, but he also needs the longer range if he hopes to travel much faster. 

What Simon doesn't anticipate was that Earth-1922's landscape is far more volatile than what he's accustomed to back in his earth, and even in Mojoworld. He soon finds that out when the vibrations from his tech caused a mini earthquake. One by one the buildings collapse around him like dominos. 

"Somebody just fucking fuck me!" he shouts. Looks like he can't do any of this with subtlety anymore. Left with yet another bad choice to make, Simon's physiology begins to convert the crashing site into a power hub. Green, blue and pink lights sizzle and singe in the air, flooding the streets in vibrant colors. He hops into the wavelengths once he solidifies the form properly enough. 

He never should have gotten wasted hours ago, because he's pretty sure he's going to throw up.

But he's, well, 'surfing' through the city now and heading towards nuclear reactor. He just happens to be doing it with as much color and chaos that could attract unwanted attention on the way.

## ➷

Simon has lived in Berkeley for the better part of his married life since turning twenty-seven, but he was originally raised in Oakland, California, located in the East Bay region. 

When he thinks about his adolescence, it was always filled with memories of sunny, sea-drenched afternoons playing punk rock and getting fucked up on meth. 

Careless self-expression is the trademark of the misfit, and the places he often found himself wrapped up in as a teenager had to be some of the loudest clubs in the country. 

One of them was an underground indie music club named 86 Miserab Blvd. It was a melting pot of clashing and complementary energies that his dormant mutation must have been drawn to from the start, even when they had yet to manifest until he reached sixteen.

He thinks about the heartland of his youth right now while he glides through the ravaged streets of New York City from an alternate dimension. He can't stomach being so far away from home like this and under even worse conditions. 

Or maybe that rumbling in his gut is just the upsetting combination of greasy onion rings and three bottles of something called Berserk Beer from Mojoworld. 

Highly likely. 

He will be puking some time today.

The sound-based colorful lights Simon just converted from the crash site four blocks away acted as tides which he is presently on top of. Bending his knees, he maintains that semi-crouching posture while thirty feet off the ground by stretching out his right arm in front of him for balance, while the other arm points below to maintain the energy blasts on his feet. 

This position also allows him to steer better. So yes, he's /totally/ surfing. Across a city of ruins. Where everyone else could be dead. Surfing with simmering colors he created himself. 

Like an asshole.

The vintage stereo tech was hooked on his belt with the use of a chain-wallet. He keeps the same decibels for now, a frequency no normal range of the human auditory sense could detect except him.

Ahead, the energy signature of the nuclear reactor emanates like a vicious bitch. That level of radioactivity has crawled right into his ear and started wriggling out of his eyes and nose. It's the greatest, most panic-inducing feeling in the world. 

"Alright, nobody better come out of nowhere and punch me in the dick next," he mutters under his breath. 

Because didn't Dr. Strange (of unverified credentials) say something about a rampage going on between 'goddesses'? 

There's only one more mile to go. Simon was starting to taste the overflowing energy surge on the roof of his tongue. Growing even more paranoid and restless, he looks left and right to make sure nothing or no one is upon him. 

My god, can't this joyride just settle with one genre of clusterfuck instead? Because Simon can't be smack-dab between a nuclear threat and a mythological battle, is he? Who's got time for all that shit? Dr. Strange? 

He hates that guy.

As he turns to the next avenue, he expects that this nuclear reactor would be near a body of water--maybe a sea--to keep the turbines cool as they churn all that...energy. Wait, are those even the right terms? 

Simon dropped out of high school, so his understanding of science is very rudimentary, and he mainly bases the knowledge he would acquire on how certain compositions of elements would interact and react to his mutation, or vice-versa.

He doesn't have a fancy degree like Dr. Strange.

After he decides that getting mad at someone he hasn't even met yet is counterproductive, Simon lowers the frequency by pressing something on his tech. This disintegrates the lights beneath him, just in time as he slides off to land on his feet on the ground again.

So here he is now, an untrained mutant recovering from inter-dimensional jet lag, now tasked to avert a global disaster.

If this world isn't doomed before...

He cranes his neck to stare at the power plant in front of him. Right. He can estimate at least another five hours before this whole thing blows up.

And that's if the reactor doesn't get attacked again.

Simon needs to think this through, so he walks further to the left side until the sea's coastline becomes bluer and more picturesque to look at. The sight of water was calming, cleansing, and reminds him how much he's still caked in fake blood and in need of a wash.

So he keeps walking towards the sea until he's leaning on the barrier that separates its depths from land and concrete.

He has the demeanor of a man who seems to have resigned to the inevitability of the catastrophe he must prevent.

'Another version of Earth, huh?' Simon thinks, 'Well, at least it still looks like the world I grew up in. There are worse places to die.'

But then he shakes off that hopelessness before it could kick him in the ass by remembering the one important discovery he's made in Mojoworld:

If the X-Man Dazzler can survive being thrown into a black hole seconds after a supernova exploded, then he certainly has to do better than just piss and moan about being homesick, doesn't he? 

Not when this world hangs in a balance. Not when he could actually do something about it. He's a mutant, dammit! The next evolutionary stage that's supposed to be resilient to any adversity thrown its way.

Just as he makes a conscious decision to genuinely try, his other Mojoworld-sponsored device rings. The communicator, as he calls it.

It wasn't another message. Or a call. Instead, it was an alert about the latest "music video" he had shot earlier, and how it's finally streaming across Mojoverse. Gross.

Simon selects the hologram clip of that shitfest and watches himself--drugged up, drunk and shredding on his guitar--perform a passive aggressive song about murdering a disc jockey. It's basically a satire piece--saturated in techno-pop disco and horny pretty people dancing--to overthrow an oppressive regime.

Probably. He was forced to write and record said song in only two days' time, and this is what he comes up with. What did he get? No paycheck at all. Just a bucket of fake blood to the face.

As that video continues to play, Simon's eyes dart to the waters directly below him, and that's when he spots the impressive bloom of two dozen jellyfishes gliding through. Ah, so even Earth-1922 has a sweeping population problem of these poisonous bastards, huh?

Hold on...

Simon snaps his head towards the nuclear reactor. And then back at the water. Then back at the power plant again.

He knows that the certainty of swallowing a tremendous amount of nuclear energy might severely injure him permanently, regardless of his mutation, but not if he could lower the radioactivity that it could actually expel before time runs out.

There had been news coverage a long time ago about a swarm of jellyfish clogging a nuclear reactor in Sweden. Hell, even the Diablo Canyon back in California had the same infestation problem. It forced the people to shut down those plants. Boy, was Simon glad he remembered that as soon as he spotted those wily things.

Could he...is it possible...will he be able to gather enough to...?

And just how many of them are down there? Simon kneels on the pavement by the docks now so he can get a closer look at said marine life. No, this distance just won't cut it. Fucking hell, he's going to have to dive into the freezing water later, isn't he? But what of the frequency he can use to attract the jellyfish? He knows that it has a unique anatomy, and that even though it doesn't have a brain for processing most stimuli, maaaaybe it can respond to vibrations.

And what is sound energy if not just a bunch of vibrations? Or whatever the fuck scientific definition that he can't articulate.

Simon has yet to fully explore the sonar and nautical implications of his sound transduction, but he knows that it's an entirely different playing field under the sea. And that scares the shit out of him more than any black hole. 

"Do I even have other options?" Maybe. Does Google work here?

He finds out a minute later that it sort of does, at least since he's using alien tech. Now he's learned that jellyfish can't really hear, but some can see--to a certain extent. Those that do have a sense of sight can detect lights. That's fine. He knows a way to convert sound to light after all.

Which means...

Simon stares back and forth at his communicator device (still playing his trashy song about DJ murder) and the deep blue sea. He then pulls up the stereo tech, but given how everything crashed down around him when he used it earlier, he was not eager to risk the same thing happening while he's underwater. So, the communicator device it is.

Someone needs to know about his plan, and who better inform about it than the one who sent him for this errand in the first place?

He selects the previous message from Dr. Strange and wonders how the hell he can send one back. Maybe he just inputs a response like the usual way, only this tech requires the viewer to blink into the hologram and allow the complex machine to retrieve their words through brain waves. Very telepathic and eerily proficient.

Simon blinks the message that goes: 'O͙f͙f͙ t͙o͙ g͙e͙t͙ j͙e͙l͙l͙y͙f͙i͙s͙h͙ t͙o͙ s͙l͙o͙w͙ d͙o͙w͙n͙ n͙u͙c͙l͙e͙a͙r͙ r͙e͙a͙c͙t͙o͙r͙. N͙o͙t͙ s͙u͙r͙e͙ i͙f͙ i͙t͙'l͙l͙ w͙o͙r͙k͙. I͙n͙ c͙a͙s͙e͙ n͙o͙t͙, w͙i͙l͙l͙ f͙l͙o͙o͙d͙ t͙h͙e͙ m͙o͙t͙h͙e͙r͙f͙u͙c͙k͙e͙r͙ i͙n͙s͙t͙e͙a͙d͙ t͙h͙e͙n͙ e͙a͙t͙ u͙p͙ w͙h͙a͙t͙ w͙o͙u͙l͙d͙ l͙e͙a͙k͙ o͙u͙t͙ f͙r͙o͙m͙ i͙t͙. P͙r͙e͙t͙t͙y͙ s͙u͙r͙e͙ I͙ c͙a͙n͙ u͙s͙u͙r͙p͙ o͙c͙e͙a͙n͙. H͙a͙r͙d͙ m͙a͙y͙b͙e͙. S͙o͙, t͙e͙l͙l͙ m͙y͙ s͙o͙n͙, i͙f͙ I͙ d͙o͙n͙'t͙ s͙u͙r͙v͙i͙v͙e͙, t͙h͙a͙t͙ I͙ l͙o͙v͙e͙ h͙i͙m͙ v͙e͙r͙y͙ m͙u͙c͙h͙. A͙l͙s͙o͙, a͙r͙e͙ y͙o͙u͙ a͙ r͙e͙a͙l͙ d͙o͙c͙t͙o͙r͙? O͙r͙ a͙r͙e͙ y͙o͙u͙ j͙u͙s͙t͙ b͙e͙i͙n͙g͙ a͙ p͙r͙e͙t͙e͙n͙t͙i͙o͙u͙s͙ s͙h͙i͙t͙?'

And with that, he puts on the same video on loop again but not before enhancing the holographic scope of the screen as he tosses it into the sea. The device is all kinds of safety-proof, and the pixels can still work even when submerged underwater like that.

He backs away several paces from the docks and takes a lungful of breath. Afterwards he canon-balls that shit.

'Diving into a region of the sea where a deadly bloom of jellyfish reside' certainly makes for an interesting obituary. 

## ➷

'S̟o̟m̟e̟o̟n̟e̟ k̟i̟l̟l̟ t̟h̟e̟ D̟J̟!~ S̟h̟o̟o̟t̟ t̟h̟e̟ f̟u̟c̟k̟i̟n̟g̟ D̟J̟!~'

His trashy music video blares like the most attention-starved beacon to had ever been broadcast under water. Mojoworld tech is annoyingly durable that way, because the collective that was their consumer society has ensured long ago that they want to constantly watch their shows and listen to music (wherever corner of the universe these fat fucks could end up in) without the jarring interruption of a faulty device. So they figured out how their tech can survive during extreme temperatures and--most importantly--literally stream doses of entertainment while they're chilling in swimming pools. 

Simon's communicator in question was the standard issue Mojoworld provides for all its citizens, even to its captive performers. It's an all-around apparatus for the mindless binge-consumer, which means unlimited, unfettered access will always be guaranteed. 

He was so grateful that he owns one at the moment. 

But as he moves his arms and legs in an attempt to coordinate his joints properly enough so he can keep up with the strong currents, Simon only realizes too late that he's literally in too deep and out of his depth at the same time. 

Ha, underwater idioms. Like they're helping any of this become less terrifying. 

Oakland has many beaches. California as a state was sunshine capital (no offense, Hawaii). And Simon had learned to swim, fish and surf since before he even knew how to ride a bike. So he loves nature's water, savors the way it drips from his hair and the salt that exfoliates the skin along with the heat of a sun at its peak during noon. He's scuba-dived a few few times too, the most memorable of which was during his honeymoon.

Here in the unknown sea in another Earth--unequipped with the proper gear, and floating so close to a mass of poisonous marine life--Simon is a little concerned not merely of what other horrors await in the deep blue, but also because he's been holding in a barf that's messing up with how he's holding his breath. He should have fucking hurled back at the docks first. Oh, well.

Meanwhile, the holographic clip of him singing the line, 'H̺o̺l̺d̺ h̺i̺m̺ u̺n̺d̺e̺r̺ w̺a̺t̺e̺r̺ u̺n̺t̺i̺l̺ t̺h̺e̺ m̺o̺t̺h̺e̺r̺f̺u̺c̺k̺e̺r̺ d̺r̺o̺w̺n̺s̺~' comes out distorted and hollow as the image spills, the pixels blinking in and out of focus whilst the video plays incessantly.

Simon slaps his cheeks a few times to get a hold of himself. Soon, he notices that the temperature is tolerable, but he knows he can do better, lest he freezes to death. He outstretches his arms to the sides now as he forces his whole body to stay immobile, save for his legs and feet still kicking and padding away. The many vibrations in the sea's sound channel proved very difficult to sort through, because he's mentally fatigued, physically hungover and emotionally unhinged, and these things are taking a shit on his concentration.

However, he reminds himself that he did not undergo extensive torture in the first three years of his stay at Mojoworld, just to drown and die right now. Simon should know by now how to fine-tune the settings of his powers. He's not some closeted mutant with a troubled past anymore. On top of that, he's foremost a performer, so whatever crap he may feel--whatever ounce of self-doubt that can cripple him--must all be set aside so he can do this.

He's aware of the cold, of the deepening chasm, of the jellyfish that are now steadily gaining speed and heading towards him. The communicator was adjacent from his position as it keeps blaring 'Kill the DJ', but it's also surprisingly buoyant enough (yet another desirable feature) to stay just nine feet away from him.

Simon has had his eyes closed for a while now. The sound of his beating heart grows faint from his eardrums as he dares himself not just to hear but really listen to the other songs that this terrible yet beautiful aquatic world wants to share. Once he gets used to the refraction of sound traveling at a speed only the poetry in his genes can match, he curls his fingers into fists so that the energy could pulsate, just in time as he summons the resonance of his own song (coming from the communicator) to flow through him.

This reverberation causes for lights to appear at long last in hues of silver and gold. They twinkle impossibly like stars in a sky, stretching for a mile at best.

He doesn't see the jellyfish coming but he wants them to know precisely where he is. The only way to make sure his song covers more miles here in the deep blue was to let gravity and air pressure to do the rest. So, Simon ceases moving his legs at once. He's suddenly not afraid anymore.

The further he floats down, the more the refraction becomes more whole for him yet also tricky to manipulate. This must be how whales communicate with each other, even when a thousand miles apart in the ocean. 

Simon doesn't need to open his eyes to know his method is working. If he did take a peek, what would greet him was the same bloom of two dozen jellyfish he saw earlier now passing above him--more clumped together than usual--and carrying another creature among them.

From at least three miles away, more blooms of jellyfish begin traveling together, drawn to this mutant's song. They now come from different locations, floating towards the rendezvous point near the nuclear reactor where Simon was. 

At this rate, the numbers could easily reach to a hundred within less than an hour, and a thousand more after that, so long as he can sustain the rhythm and keep the lights cascading. He hopes that he could amass an army of these deceptively fragile and luminescent pretty things before the deadline he had approximated catches up.

He finally starts swimming up again, this time while leading what jellyfish are already accumulated to head towards the direction of the turbines. They move much faster now since he's using echoes to reel them in. It was only while doing this that he becomes aware of another passenger involved. The composition of its body was decidedly...human? The mass and density certainly not only give it away, but also the rhythm of the heartbeat. Simon knows how people sound far too intimately to ever be mistaken.

And so he starts to swim backwards, flapping his arms as much as he could manage so he can make a quick turn towards the entity.

* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@SONOFRAGENDLUV](https://twitter.com/sonofragendluv) **

**ﾒ**

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